The Night it all Began
by Taste of Cinnamon
Summary: He spotted it, hovering upon the horizon like some absurd dragonfly, glowing faintly green, shimmering slightly as if it was still making up its mind. The Dark Mark. And suddenly, the everything began to fall apart.


**Aug 2, 2006**

**So I went back and read this and the thought that immediately passed through my mind was "how the heck did I not see all those typos?" They're embarrassingly blatant. But now they're gone (hopefully) and the whole thing has been revised slightly.**

**Still dedicated to Zona. **

**--- --- ---**

**The Night it all Began**

Sirius Black…

He sailed through the night sky on his pride and joy, his shiny black motorcycle, wand clenched tightly in his teeth, an enormous bottle of wine in his right hand, a toy broomstick in his left. A gift for his godson, that's all it was, something for the boy to play with on a rainy day. He had scoured the market for the perfect one, the perfect size, perfect shape, perfect model. Bargained with the vendor for it while others looked on, laughing at his obsession. Carefully wrapped it up in iridescent paper that now caught the glint of the moonlight.

He tightened his grip around the wine, the broomstick, urging the bike on faster, faster. Grinning like a madman, head thrown back into the night, black robes and black hair billowing out in the wind.

The night was cold, but what did he care? It didn't matter. Nothing else mattered save that he was going to see his best friend again, joke and sing songs of merriment together, drink ale and wine until all rational thought was banished and the neighbors came to check on their sanity. Be happy, be glad, and forget about the Dark Lord, the deaths of their friends, their nightmares for one night. One night. That wasn't too much to ask, was it?

Five miles, that was all, just five miles from his destination he spotted it, hovering upon the horizon like some absurd dragonfly, glowing faintly green, shimmering slightly as if it was still making up its mind. The Dark Mark. A strangely bizarre apparition on so tranquil a night.

Any other form and he would have taken it for a prank, the work of youngsters seeking attention, seeking recognition…but this? There wasn't a soul in the world brave enough to joke with the Dark Mark. No, this wasn't fake. This was blindingly, horribly, terribly terribly real.

His heart clenched, his stomach plummeted as he rode the last few blocks to the house. No. No, not them. Not his good, dear friends. Anyone but them. Oh please anyone but them. A wave of cold dread descended upon him as he alighted and let his bike fall to the ground, gripping his wand in his left hand, the hand that still held his godson's broom.

The house was surprisingly calm, surprisingly cozy looking, just the way he had seen it last. Inviting, warm, and _home._ The curtain was drawn back just a little, just enough to reveal a tempting slice of the interior, a few wisps of smoke still escaped the chimney to drift lazily skyward as if world-weary, and the cypress and gold plaque on the door still bore the words "He who live here shall be forever blessed and at peace" proudly—a gift given to "he who lives here" half jokingly, half in hopeful belief that the sign would serve as protection by no other than Hagrid. All was fine. It had to be.

Had to be.

The door was open—strange, but not necessarily foreshadowing--and he made toward it slowly, his step trancelike, his breathing unhurried, the look of a convicted man on his face. He called their names, called again. It's me, Sirius. Your old friend. Don't you remember--Sirius? He laughed. What a joke. That James, he was such a kidder, always pulling pranks. All right, you got me, you can come out now…Is anybody home?

He padded to the kitchen, the bathroom, the study, searching for a glimpse of something, anything that would put his heart at rest. Took a deep breath and alighted the stairs, peered into the bedroom.

Ice wasn't an adequate description of the cold that descended upon him, up his spine, down toward his fingertips, his toes, converging in his belly and leaving him numb, a lump in his throat, an unbearable tightness in his chest.

No.

No, it couldn't be. James. Not James. How could he? He couldn't be gone. Not him. Never James. Never James. The wine clashed to the floor, taking forever to fall, and shattered into a thousand fragments, the bloody liquid seeping into the ground, forming a dark, almost blood red pool that caught the reflection of the moonlight and his own pale, disbelieving face.

He took another step back, then another, clutching the handrail of the stairs in his distress, not willing to believe what his eyes had told him. Not willing to believe that James was…Oh Gods. James. His best mate, his friend, the one person he had shared a lifetime with. _No._

He looked up. Lily. Yes, Lily. She'd know what to do, that girl, always so smart, so brave. She'd help him, tell him it was alright. Assure him James would come back. She had to. _Had to._

He stumbled through the hall, fumbled at the nursery door, pushed it open and fell into the room, trying to calm himself down…then blanched, feeling the bile arise in his throat. Choked, trying to hold it back. Swallowed hard until he felt his throat would rip apart from the effort.

Lily. Beautiful, brave, passionate Lily. Lily Evans—he was loathe to admit it to James, but Evans always sounded better with her name than Potter did. Hogwarts prefect, Head Girl, always _there_, it seemed, since that first foggy morning he let his mouth run a little and had received a well aimed jinx for his efforts.

And now…now there she was on the floor, her shining auburn hair disheveled, robes torn and besmirched, a look of distress upon her now silent face. So beautiful even now, even when the life had left her, even with her features contorted into desperation. No wonder James loved her—he'd go crazy when he found out. But—Oh gods—James was…he was…

Blinking, he stood there numbly, unmoving, tears in his eyes, transfixed by the scene of disaster, hands clenched at his sides, shaking uncontrollably until…A loud wail punctuated his thoughts, but he stood still, not caring if Death had come for him as well. Let it come. Nothing could hurt him more than it already had. Let it come. But the cry came again, louder, more insistent, again and again, and his vision cleared.

_Harry. _

He wheeled around, raced to the source of the cry, not caring if he twisted his ankle in the process, not caring that he was dismantling the house in the process, not caring a hippogriff's tail feather for the fate of the whole Goddamn cruel, unfair, terrible, _hateful_ world. Tossing aside drapery and sheets, tripping across discarded bottles, finally finding the baby in the corner crying and shouting but unharmed, and the pain already fizzing inside him began to bubble at an unbearable rate. He didn't touch him. Couldn't touch him. Just crouched there staring at him, ignoring the pain, ignoring the cries, paying no heed to anything but the small bundle there in front of him.

Harry. Harry Potter. He saw Lily in his eyes, James in his proud jaw, the determined set of his mouth. Saw their love, their tears, their legacy. All that was left of his best friend and best friend's wife. The eyes, a brighter green than his mother's had been, opened wide and stared straight at him, straight into his soul, permeating his spirit, cutting into his heart.

Sirius, they seemed to say, where are they? Where are my mummy and daddy? I'm hungry, Sirius, I'm hungry and I want my mummy.

_What right have you to live when _they_ had…_

He shook his head in desperation and began to back away. It wasn't me, said his eyes, his hands outstretched in supplication. It wasn't me, Harry. Don't look at me like that, I wanted to protect them. I wanted only their happiness. Stop looking at me, stop it! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.

He couldn't take the baby. Just couldn't. He had no right. Had no knowledge of how to take care of a child. Couldn't stand looking into Harry's eyes every day and seeing only James, only Lily. He had no heart to love him. Not anymore.

He ran. Turned and ran. Dimly realized he was still gripping the broomstick and tossed it aside uncaringly, hearing the clatter, but not stopping. He didn't think he could ever stop. Maybe he could outrun it, outrun his pain, outrun all emotion. He didn't know where he was going, but he hoped that wherever it was, it would be to a better place, a place where he didn't have to face his grief, didn't have to acknowledge the fact that James was…

Dead. He was dead. And he wasn't coming back

He ran headlong into a dark figure, falling into the mud and lying there unwilling to get up until a large hand descended upon him and made to drag him to his feet. That strength he recognized, and that gruff voice, and the musty smell of a coat that had been worn far past its time: Hagrid, wanting to know if the rumors were true, wanting to know where Harry was, wanting to know if he was alright.

He couldn't speak, couldn't answer, all he could do was just stand there staring blindly at nothing, the tears streaming down his face. If his old classmates could only see him now. Sirius Black, Hogwart's heartthrob, too cool to be in school. He who had never let anything best him…reduced to a mere pile of flesh and bone, empty and depraved. He swallowed and let himself be comforted, let himself be helped up, brushed off, nodding dumbly. Pointed. There. Harry's right there. Upstairs. Safe. Dumbledore wants him? Take my bike. I don't need it anymore. Lily and James. Oh god oh god oh god.

He started running again the moment he was released, only one thought in his mind. Peter. He had to find Peter. Had to kill him, strangle him with his bare hands if it came down to that, pound his lying, double crossing, traitor face into the mud.

A growl escaped him, an ugly primal growl, born of pure animal instinct: Hunt, kill, destroy. Nothing else would sate him. Picking up his pace, he ran, ran, ran, striving for a glimpse of pale hair and pink skin. The bastard, coward that he was, was hiding. Fine. Let him hide. He would meet his just rewards if it took a lifetime. Karma Peter, karma. What comes around goes around. You kill, you will _be_ killed.

He finally found the grimy piece of waste scurrying through the crowd, heading, no doubt, to his master. He called his name, called again, then saw him turn and run, a look of fear upon his face, the slimy, no good bastard. Sniveling snake. Weasel. Rat.

By normal standards he should be exhausted, completely drained, but rage lent him strength. Peter learned that the hard way, cornered in a back alley, a pleading expression of fake innocence on his face, his sickly smile, his pasty hair, his quivering features—trembling with fear, his wand held out, backing away from the manifestation of anger that approached him.

Sirius. Sirius, it's me. Peter. What? Lily and James? Dead? No. No, what are you talking about? I would never. It wasn't me. You know me. I'd rather die. Rather give up my own life for them.

Peter was sweating nervously by this time as his adversary smiled, a cruel hard smile, a cold dark smile, teeth glistening, black eyes full of hatred, glinting with the need for revenge:

Then die, Peter. Then Die.

People were approaching now, muggles and wizards murmuring among themselves, pushing past one another, trying to catch sight of the struggle. _What's happening? What's happening?_

Peter saw them. Knew how to turn it to his advantage, and smiled. One last smile for his friend, a memory of the old days, though infinitely colder. A smile that said goodbye. He raised his wand, pointed it at his opposer's chest, opened his mouth…and screamed.

Lily and James, Sirius! How could you? Lily and James!

Caught by surprise, he fumbled for a split second, his mouth opened in shock, in disbelief, helpless as Peter Pettigrew, poor, clumsy, fumbling Peter Pettigrew mutter a spell, snap his wand in half, and disappear in the blink of an eye.

Before he could react, before he could even think, the street around them exploded, gravel surging upward, dust clogging the air, bodies tumbling and tripping over one another, the screams heard from miles around. Pandemonium reigned, and chaos, stricken people milling about in confusion.

He stared at where Peter had been, ignoring the cacophony, his wand still leveled where moments before had stood a portly figure. Saw a bald pink tail round the corner out of sight and out of reach, and felt the full weight of what had happened settle upon him.

It was funny. Really it was. A colossal joke. He never knew Peter had it in him. He would've made a fine marauder if it hadn't been for that tiny setback. A true marauder. A beautiful escape. Good job Peter. James would've been proud. Remus would have been proud. And he, Sirius, would have been proud if he wasn't so busy trying to stop himself from screaming. Peter shouldn't have been underestimated; he'd always had it in him. Always harbored a murderer within his depths. He had been hiding it all that time.

Oh, the irony. The magnificent, unbelievable irony of it all. He couldn't help it. Tipped his head back and laughed. Uncontrollably, loudly, crazily, his guffaws echoing in the night. Well done, Peter, well done. You won.

In his heart he was weeping.

When the ministry came to take him away, they found him like that, laughing like a manic after having, in effect, murdered his best friend. Everyone was witness, the heavens, the stars bore witness for his treachery. He was a sadist if there ever was one, the no good backstabber.

---

Now he sits in his lonely dark jail cell, the dementors drifting about him, haunting his every move, draining the youth, the happiness, the soul from his eyes. But he doesn't mind. Not really. Nothing matters anymore. What else could? Peter had won—he was still alive and James and Lily weren't. He had done his duty, maybe even now was accepting praise and reward for his deed.

But it wasn't over yet. Someday…someday there would be recompense. Someday he would see Peter dead, would laugh over his limp carcass, raise his hands up high towards the stars and shout to them that justness had prevailed. Someday he would be able to look James in the eye again when he visited in dream. Someday.

But not today. Not today.

Today he sits, slumped in his crude stone bed, twenty two years older in the span of two weeks, his cold, empty eyes staring listlessly ahead, wallowing in his grief, reveling in his sorrow, biding his time. Still alive, but only just. Only to keep breathing long enough to see his best friend avenged.

Someday, James, someday.

He thinks of Harry from time to time, wonders how he is growing, wonders if he still looks likes James, if he still possesses Lily's fire--her passion, his spirit. Azkaban he could take, dementors he could stand, and hunger, cold, even loneliness…but not this feeling, not this guilt, this pain, this grief. Sometimes he wonders if the boy will hate him for leaving, for not taking him when he could've that fateful night, wonders if he'll blame him. Other times he wonders what they could be doing if he hadn't backed away and ran, if they would be running races across damp grass, playing practice rounds of quidditch, laughing together in memory of what had once been, what could have been, and what will be.

It's at times like these when he wishes he were free again, not to seek revenge but to be with Harry. It's times like these when he stares at his reflection in the frost creeping along the walls of his cell, finds only sunken, hollow eyes peering back at him, and wonders if he still could be considered human. It's times like these when he looks up expecting to see stars but has to make do with cold, hard, unfeeling stone.

It's times like these when Sirius Black, once looked up to by all, once a shining spirit, once possessing a beauty, a soul, a heart…it's at times like these when Sirius Black puts his head into his hands and weeps.

There he remains, forgotten by many, hated by all, biding his time, forever waiting, forever hoping.

---

**A/N:**

And before I forget, I'd appreciate if you would take the time to read From Yesterday, which also deals with the death of various marauders, this time in Remus' point of view. (End shameless advertising)


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